Srikanta

by Saratchandra Chattopadhyay

  On my host’s recommendation I asked Pyari—for that was her name—to resume her singing. She smiled and looked pleased. I could see that she was relieved to find among her audience one man sober enough to appreciate her singing. For the rest of the evening, till late into the night, it seemed as though she sang for me alone. I had the strangest feeling that she was trying to drown the drunken revelry around the two of us with all the beauty of her person and the sweetest of her songs. I was so transported that when the singing came to an end I could find no adequate words of appreciation. I mumbled a conventional word of thanks at which Pyari smiled and lowered her eyes. Then, bringing her hands together in a namaskar—not a salaam—she prepared to depart.

  I looked at the sleeping, semi-conscious forms around me and suddenly found my voice. ‘Baiji,’ I said in Hindustani, ‘I bless the fate that has brought me here. I am looking forward to the privilege of hearing you every evening for the next fortnight.’

  She stood still for a few seconds, then coming up to me said softly in Bengali, ‘His Highness has paid me handsomely to entertain him and his friends. So sing I must. But why should you waste your time toadying for a prince’s favours? Leave this place. Go home tomorrow morning as early as you can.’

  I was so startled by her words that I stood and stared dumbly at her retreating back as, with a swish of her silken garments, she swept out of the tent.

  The first hunt was scheduled for the following morning. We were eleven hunters in all with fifteen guns between us of which six were rifles. Innumerable hampers of food and wine borne by servants accompanied us as we rode out to our destination. The place selected was a huge dried up carcass of a river with enormous silk-cotton trees stretching for miles along one bank. Opposite was a beach of white sand dotted with catkins and wild grass. I could see no signs of game except some doves cooing contentedly from the branches of the silk-cotton trees and a few curlews and herons flitting over the stagnant water.

  Baiji’s words rang in my ears as I watched my fellow hunters regaling themselves with whisky in between an animated discussion on the strategy of the hunt. I threw down my gun. His Highness noticed the action.

  ‘You are not yourself, Srikanta. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘I don’t shoot birds,’ I answered shortly.

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, amazed.

  ‘I haven’t used grape-shot since I grew a moustache,’ I answered. ‘I’m out of touch.’

  My host laughed till tears ran down his cheeks, his unrestrained delight at my witty remark was reinforced, I am convinced, by the golden liquid he had been imbibing so freely.

  But the rest of the company was not amused. One of them—a Bihari named Sarayu—glowered at me. ‘Is there anything shameful about shooting birds?’ he asked testily.

  ‘Not for everyone,’ I replied. ‘There are always exceptions.’ Then, turning to my host I said, ‘If you’ll excuse me I’ll return to the camp. I don’t feel too well.’

  Entering my tent I first ordered a cup of tea, then lighting a cigarette, lay back against the silk cushions. I had barely taken a couple of puffs when a servant appeared and, salaaming respectfully, requested me to accompany him to Baiji’s tent as she had expressed a desire to see me. I had been half hoping for, half dreading, such a call.

  ‘Why does she wish to see me?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am Baiji’s khansama.’

  ‘Are you a Bengali?’

  ‘Yes, I am a barber by caste. My name is Ratan.’

  ‘Is Baiji a Hindu?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ratan laughed. ‘Would I work for a Mussalmani?’

  Leading me to the door of his mistress’ tent Ratan disappeared. I lifted the silken curtain and walked in. Last night, dressed as she was in baggy trousers and a veil, I had thought her a Mussalman prostitute from the north. Now, seeing her as she sat alone waiting for me, I realized that she was a Bengali and a high-caste Hindu. A milk-white garad (a kind of silk fabric) sari was draped around her slim body and long wet hair streamed down her back. She had a tray in front of her with betel leaves, nuts, catechu and lime in little compartments. A highly ornamented pipe and bowl with tobacco in it stood on one side.

  She rose smiling as I entered and pointing to the velvet rug beside her, invited me to sit. ‘I would rather not smoke in your presence,’ she said in the voice of an old acquaintance. ‘Ratan! Take the pipe away.’ Then, as Ratan removed it, she said apologetically, ‘I can’t offer you my pipe. But I will send for some cigarettes.’

  ‘You don’t have to,’ I answered shortly. ‘I have some in my pocket.’

  ‘That’s good,’ she said rather naïvely and went on, ‘Make yourself comfortable. We have a lot to tell each other. Strange are the ways of God. I never dreamed that I would meet you here of all places. You went with His Highness to the hunt. What made you come back?’

  ‘I was disgusted with the hunt.’

  ‘So you should be. How cruel men are! Taking innocent lives for pleasure. Is your father well?’

  ‘Father is dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ she exclaimed. ‘And your mother?’

  ‘She went before Father.’

  ‘So—that’s why—’ She bit her lip and her eyes swam. I thought I had imagined it but when she spoke I knew I hadn’t for her voice was soft and had a hint of tears in it. ‘You have no one, then, to care for you. I can see that you are not married. Are you still with Pishima? What about your studies? Have you given them up with everything else that was good in your life?’

  Till this moment I had patiently answered her questions, satisfying her unaccountable curiosity regarding the intimate details of my life. Now I lost my temper. ‘Who are you?’ I asked roughly. ‘I don’t think I have seen you before. Why do you ask me so many questions?’

  ‘Who am I?’ She smiled. ‘I am Pyari. But if my face means nothing to you the name my parents gave me won’t either. Besides I am not from your village.’

  ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘That I won’t tell.’

  ‘What is your father’s name?’

  Pyari bit her tongue and shook her head. ‘He’s dead and gone to heaven. I can’t soil his name with my impure lips.’

  ‘Well,’ I said with mounting impatience. ‘At least tell me how you know me. You can do that, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pyari dimpled back, not offended in the least. ‘But will you believe what I say?’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘I know you from the moment I knew myself. It is stupid of me but that’s how it is. You have made me weep so often and so long that, had the sun not dried my tears, I would have been standing in a pool. Do you believe that?’

  I did not. I thought this another bit of vivacious flattery that women of easy virtue employ to captivate men. I realized, later, that the mistake was mine. I had forgotten that her lips had always been formed like that—as if a mocking smile lurked at the corners of the twin arches. I made no answer.

  She studied my face for a few moments and gave a delighted laugh. ‘You are not as stupid as I thought. You know that such words mean nothing—that they are the tricks of my trade. But let me tell you something. Men far cleverer than you have been duped by words like these. And if you are so clever why can’t you find yourself a better job than that of a professional toady? You are no good at it anyway. Why don’t you quit and go home?’

  Anger surged through me and hot words rose to my lips. Curbing them I said quietly, ‘A job is a job even if I’m no good at it. But it’s time I took my leave. People will talk about us if I stay too long.’

  ‘You should feel flattered if people talk about us. Why should you regret an acquaintance with me in your present circumstances?’

  I turned away from her and moved towards the door. From behind me came peal after peal of shameless laughter. ‘Dear friend,’ she mocked. ‘Don’t forget me and my pool of tears. Repeat the story to His Highness and his frie
nds and it may be the making of you.’

  I walked out without a word, her taunting words stinging my back like a cluster of scorpions. Back in my tent I drank my tea and lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. Forcing my confused brain into some semblance of order I asked myself, ‘Who is this woman and why did she behave so strangely?’ But however hard I tried to recapitulate, nothing in my past reminded me, even vaguely, of Pyari. Yet she obviously knew me and all about me. She knew my background and character. She had as good as told me that being a prince’s toady was not my natural vocation. She had even enquired after Pishima. She had said many other things that made little sense to me. But one thing was clear. For some reason, known only to herself, she wanted me out of the way. Puzzling over this I tossed about on my bed unable to sleep. When the hunters returned in the evening I pleaded a headache and kept to my room. From where I lay I could hear Pyari’s singing and the drunken cheers of her audience far into the night.

  In the next few days I noticed a change in the mood of the hunting party. The fiery enthusiasm of the first day seemed to have waned and the hunters were loath to leave the camp. Things being as they were, I expressed a desire to leave. Not that I was particularly unhappy or uncomfortable where I was. It was the presence of Baiji that put a severe constraint on me. The moment she entered the room I had the strongest urge to get up and walk away. When I couldn’t do that I would turn my face away and pretend an absorption in something or someone else. The fact that she was desperately trying to meet my eyes was not lost on me.

  It being decided that I would leave on Saturday afternoon, His Highness had arranged a special session of music after breakfast. After the singing was over the men sat on, chatting idly on various topics. Somehow the conversation veered around to the subject of ghosts and one of the company—an elderly Bihari gentleman and a resident of the village in which we were camping—had an interesting contribution to make. He announced that if anyone of us doubted the existence of spirits, he should visit the village burning-ghat that night for, it being a Saturday and a new moon night in conjunction, the spirits would be abroad for people to see and hear. I remembered my childhood fears and laughed aloud.

  The old gentleman threw me a sharp look and asked, ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not? Any special reason?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you should believe me. You Bengalis sneer at the supernatural because you’ve read a few pages of English. Bengalis are godless and unclean—un-Hindu.’

  I was shocked at the man’s rancour and his offensive generalizations. But I spoke quite calmly, ‘I don’t wish to argue with you. If not believing in ghosts makes me unclean and un-Hindu, so be it. But one thing is certain. If anyone claims to have seen a ghost he is either deceived or deceiving. That is my considered opinion.’

  The old man looked at me with blazing eyes and clutched my arm. ‘Can you go to the burning-ghat tonight?’ he asked in a tone of challenge.

  ‘I certainly can,’ I answered. ‘I’ve often done so in my childhood.’

  ‘Don’t make false claims, Babu,’ he snarled. Then he proceeded to tell his audience a series of hair-raising tales about the burning-ghat which was no ordinary burning-ghat but a mahasamsan (a vast cremation ground). He told us of people who had seen Kali and her demons playing a ball game with a hundred human skulls; of others who had heard demoniac laughter. He talked of white foreigners who had lost their lives in their attempts to test the truth of his assertions. He told these stories well and with conviction and I could see that many of my co-hunters were paralysed with fear.

  Suddenly I became aware of Pyari. She had crept up to where I sat and was listening open-mouthed. Her shoulder rested against mine and I felt her tremble. Noting the effect his words had on his audience the old Bihari turned around and looked triumphantly at me. ‘So, Babu saheb,’ he asked with a sneer. ‘You will go tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘As you wish. If you lose your life—’

  ‘If I lose my life I won’t blame you. But I won’t go unarmed. I’ll take my gun.’

  At these words a torrent of invective burst from the company—not against me alone. My entire community came under censure. Bengalis were Anglicized and atheistic. They did not follow the Hindu way of life. They ate meat and other unclean food. They hesitated when it came to killing birds but thought they could shoot down ghosts and demons. And, for all their brave words, they were cowardly at heart. All this and much more my fellow-toadies poured into the willing ears of the prince till, unable to bear it any longer, I got up and walked away.

  Just before dusk a young man named Purushottam accosted me outside my tent. I knew him slightly and liked him for, though a Bihari, he was not as much of a Bengali-hater as the others. He also talked and drank much less and had admitted that he was no hunter.

  ‘Srikanta babu,’ he said. ‘Take me with you tonight. I’ve never seen a ghost in my life and I shouldn’t miss this fine opportunity.’

  ‘You don’t believe in the supernatural?’ I asked, laughing.

  ‘Not a bit.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it doesn’t exist.’

  He proceeded to give me many rational arguments in support of his claim. I was not particularly impressed by his arguments for I knew that fears of this kind are not resolved by arguments. I didn’t want to take him along but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Strapping his dhoti tightly between his legs he picked up a length of oiled bamboo. ‘Srikanta babu,’ he said, ‘you may carry a gun if you like. But I am confident that I can keep all ghosts and demons at bay with my stick.’

  ‘Will the stick be in your hand when the time comes?’

  ‘Rest assured it will. The burning-ghat is two miles away. We should leave the camp by eleven o’clock.’

  An hour or so before we were to start I was pacing outside my tent speculating on what the supernatural was all about. It was not that I feared the coming ordeal for my terror of the dead had passed with my childhood. I did not believe that spirits exist. Even Indra, who did, never claimed to have seen any. Yet, my thoughts repeatedly went back to an experience that I had had on just such a dark and moonless night five or six years ago. That day had also been a Saturday. I remember that distinctly.

  Nirupama, whom I called Nirudidi, was a virgin widow who lived in the town in which I had been reared. Large hearted, self-sacrificing and devout, she was loved and looked up to as a model of Indian womanhood by her family and neighbours alike. Then, one day, she was thirty years old at the time, it was discovered that she was carrying a child. The shock and horror of the Hindu community knew no bounds. Its guardians were of such immaculate character themselves and so zealous of the community’s moral welfare that they were forced to advocate a policy of ruthless ostracism. She was compelled to leave her home and take refuge in a hut at the edge of the forest. When she lay dying of puerperal fever after six months of intense suffering, not one of her family or friends were at her side. I was young and couldn’t do much for her. But I sat by her watching her die.

  It was a dark and stormy night. After twelve o’clock the wind increased in velocity and rain fell in torrents. I sat half dozing in a broken chair by Nirudidi’s bedside when I heard her voice, strong and clear, ‘Srikanta.’

  I started up and went to her.

  ‘Srikanta—go home,’ she whispered.

  ‘In this pouring rain?’ I asked, amazed.

  ‘Yes. Go quickly before they get you.’ I touched her forehead. It was burning. ‘She’s in a delirium,’ I thought. To appease her I said, ‘I’ll go in a few minutes. As soon as the rain stops.’

  ‘No! No!’ She sat up excitedly. ‘Don’t wait another moment. Go now.’

  ‘Why Nirudidi?’ I was frightened by the passion in her face and voice.

  She clutched my arm and pointed to the closed window. ‘Can’t you see them?’ she whispered. ‘Those soldiers with dark faces peepin
g into the room? They’ve come to take me away. They’ll kill you if you stay.’

  Then, for the rest of the night, she tossed and turned, screaming all the while, ‘There, there—at the window—under the bed. They are coming. They’ll kill you. Run, Srikanta, run.’

  I was so terrified that I would have run out into the storm and rain if it wasn’t for those ‘soldiers with dark faces’ who stood just outside. Nirudidi’s passionate conviction that I was in danger was dispelled only with her death—just as dawn was breaking over a storm-tossed sky. Thinking of that night brought on the dull ache that crept into my heart whenever I remembered Nirudidi.

  ‘Babu,’ a voice broke in on my thoughts. It was Ratan’s. ‘Baiji sends her regards and requests you to meet her in her tent.’

  I was astonished at this intrusion and extremely displeased. To send for me at this time of the night was a liberty Pyari had no right to take—particularly after her offensive behaviour the last time we were together. I looked sharply at Ratan but on his face was the bland incomprehension of the well-trained servant.

  ‘That is quite impossible,’ I said, controlling myself with an effort. ‘I must leave in a few minutes. Tell your mistress that I’ll see her tomorrow.’

  ‘She wishes to see you tonight, Babu.’ Ratan’s voice was firm but respectful. ‘If you can’t go to her tent she will come to yours.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ratan,’ I said with all the patience I could muster. ‘I can’t see her tonight. I’ll see her tomorrow. I promise.’

  ‘Then she will come to you. In the five years that I’ve worked for her I have never known her to change her mind.’

  My blood boiled at these words. Was there no limit to the woman’s audacity and irrational demands? I felt trapped. I had no intention of gratifying her whims but if she really came to my tent, as she threatened to do, my already worn reputation would be in shreds.

  ‘Wait a minute, Ratan,’ I said, and entering my tent I pulled on my boots and picked up my rifle. Then, in a militant mood, I walked over to Baiji’s tent.